Wayfarer (5 page)

Timothy's confidence in the transforming power of Christianity had begun to weaken, his doubts growing as he encountered scientific books and articles that argued against his faith. Then the Gospel Hall he'd been attending—the closest thing he could find to the Brethren chapel
he'd been part of in Kampala—closed down after one of the elders was caught stealing from the missionary fund. When Timothy's isolation became unbearable, he'd prayed fervently that Paul and Peri would invite him to Oakhaven, but they hadn't called or written once. By the time he'd seen a bus advertisement telling him that God probably didn't exist, Timothy was ready to believe it.

“So is it really that terrible for you, being here?” Paul persisted. “Or is it just the school you hate?”

“Greenhill's all right,” said Timothy, his eyes following a pair of crows as they flapped past. “I mean, the teachers are decent, and I've been getting good marks and that sort of thing. I just…don't fit in.”

“The battle cry of the McCormicks,” said Paul dryly. “I see your genes have done you no favors there. But was it really necessary to get yourself suspended to prove the point?”

“What makes you think I—”

“Oh, come on, Tim. Even as a kid you were a calculating little beggar. Don't think I hadn't noticed you timed that stunt perfectly so you'd end up being sent here, instead of moping about in Tunbridge Wells with my mum and dad. What are you figuring, then? That if you make yourself odious enough at Greenhill, your parents will have to pull you out and send you to a different school instead?”

Timothy shifted uncomfortably. “It's not like that.” Well, maybe it was, but he hadn't planned that far ahead
yet. All he'd been able to think of while he was at Greenhill was that somehow he had to get away from there before he went insane.

“What is it like, then?”

The words came automatically. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Right. Because no one has ever felt the way you do.” Paul blew out a sigh. “Fine then, I'll leave you to your beautiful misery. But if you're planning to sulk your way through the next three weeks, I may as well drive you into town right now and book you into the hostel. Peri's got enough on her mind at the moment—she shouldn't have to deal with your attitude on top of everything else.”

Humiliation scorched through Timothy. To be thrown out of Oakhaven, the one place in England he'd counted on always being welcome…It was the worst thing he could imagine right now. And why? Just because he'd touched some old tree and dared to be curious about what Peri had been doing in the garden? What kind of sense did that make?

“Anyway,” remarked Paul over his shoulder as he pivoted the chair and rolled toward the door, “if you can stop brooding long enough to eat, Peri's kept some supper for you. Otherwise, we'll see you tomorrow.”

Timothy waited until the hum of the stair lift receded before slamming the door and throwing himself down on the bed. Anger seethed inside him, and it took all his resolve not to snatch the alarm clock off the nightstand and hurl it across the room.

So that was all he had to look forward to at Oakhaven? Three weeks shut up in the house, with strange things happening all around him that he wasn't allowed to question, let alone investigate? There was no way Timothy could stand it.

May as well drive you into town right now and book you into the hostel….

He grabbed his backpack and pulled out his wallet, leafing through its contents. The bank card was good for a couple hundred pounds, plus he still had fifty—no, sixty—left over from Christmas. If he was careful, it might just be enough to get by. And if he got stuck, he could always make some money by playing his guitar.

In which case there'd be no need to come back here, except to pick up his suitcase…Timothy shoved the wallet into his pocket, then dumped the schoolbooks out of his backpack and started stuffing clothes in. Halfway through the process he paused to tear a page out of one of his workbooks and scrawl a hasty note:

He was just shoving the last pair of his socks into the backpack when the light above his head winked out. Annoyed, he dropped the pack and opened the bedroom door—to find the lights in the corridor still glowing brightly.

A fuse must have blown, but he wasn't about to go downstairs and ask Peri to fix it. Timothy left the door open and returned to finish packing as best he could. But then the corridor lights flicked off as well, and in the distance he heard the thin chuckle of running water.

No worries,
Timothy told himself, though his heart was skittering around in his chest.
You left the tap on by accident, that's all.
Feeling his way through the blackness, Timothy followed the noise to find a steady trickle coming from the bathroom faucet. He turned it off—and at the same instant, the lights behind him blinked back on.

Timothy didn't believe in ghosts. But
something
was playing games with him, and the knowledge sent electric eels down his spine. Slowly he walked back to his room, braced to confront whoever—or whatever—might be waiting. But he had just reached the doorway when all went black again.

That was it. Timothy leaped into the darkened bedroom, zipped his backpack, and flung it over his shoulder; then he snatched up his guitar case in one hand and his shoes in the other, and fled.

It was an almost impossible effort to slow down and tread lightly on the staircase, but somehow Timothy did it, reaching the front door with barely a creak. As he wrestled his feet into his running shoes he held his breath, sure that at any moment Paul or Peri would come out of the kitchen to challenge him; but no sound came from the far end of
the house except the clatter of dishes and the blare of the evening news.

Timothy eased the door open and squeezed out onto the step, clutching the guitar in front of him like a shield. Then he stepped cautiously over the wheelchair ramp, hurried through the front garden, and sprinted down the road toward the village.

 

The train station at Aynsbridge wasn't far, not for a seasoned walker: It took Timothy only forty minutes to get there. But by the time he struggled through the door with his guitar case he felt as though his arm were coming out of its socket, and he was glad he hadn't brought anything heavier with him.

He bought a ticket and sat down to wait, his leg jittering nervously, until the last stripe of sunlight bled into the horizon and the sign above him read:

 

LONDON BRIDGE: 1 min.

 

As he walked to meet the train, the man sweeping the platform gave him a quizzical glance, and despite the chill, Timothy felt sweat prickle along his hairline. Any minute now somebody would march up and demand to know what he was doing traveling so late on a school night, and where his parents were—

But this was England, where other people's children
were other people's business, and no one spoke to him or even moved in his direction. The train screeched into the station, and he jumped onto it. The doors hissed shut, the carriage jolted into motion, and just like that, Timothy Sinclair was away.

A rack of brochures stood by the station exit. Timothy flipped through them, looking for hostels. There seemed to be quite a few within walking distance, but the closest was the Trans-National, a few streets away. Stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket, he picked up his guitar case and headed off.

As he walked, a slimy rain began dripping down the collar of his jacket; taxis honked at him and buses rumbled by. He passed clumps and straggles of pedestrians, all walking briskly and not sparing him so much as a glance. The guitar case dragged at his arm, and the straps of his backpack chafed. Timothy was gazing blearily into
the distance and thinking that the hostel had looked a lot nearer on the map, when suddenly he tripped, staggering against a shop window. He looked down and saw with dull surprise that his shoelace had come untied.

Now that was odd. He'd done it up on the train, and he was sure he'd double-knotted it. Setting down his guitar case, he dropped to one knee to fix it—and someone bumped into him from behind.

“Oh, sorry!” said a light alto voice, and a hand came down on his shoulder. Timothy spun around to see a willowy girl with skin the color of tea leaves and dark hair falling in braids to her shoulders. His heart felt weak, and his lips moved in soundless disbelief:
Miriam?

No, of course it wasn't. This girl's nose was narrower and longer, her lips less full. “It's okay,” he said, feeling his ears grow hot at his own mistake. “I shouldn't have just stopped like that. Sorry.”

The girl laughed, a rich throaty sound. “Well, if we're both sorry, then it can't be anyone's fault, can it?” Under the glow of the streetlamp her teeth flashed white. “I'm just glad I didn't smash your guitar. Off to a gig?”

He had a fleeting thought of lying and saying yes, just to impress her. “No,” he admitted. “Just the hostel.” She looked only a couple of years older than he was, well-dressed and alone; it was probably safe to tell her that much. Besides, even if her accent was pure London, the friendliness in her voice reminded him of home.

“Which one, the Trans-National?”

He nodded.

“Ah.” She looked amused now, though he couldn't imagine why. “Well, best of luck.” Without waiting for a response she walked off, her hips swaying lightly but her shoulders perfectly straight. It was the same way Miriam walked when she was carrying something on her head—a skill he'd never been able to duplicate, no matter how hard he tried—and Timothy watched her with a wistful lump in his throat until she raised a hand to her ear and began speaking into it:

“Rosie? It's Veronica. Listen…”

The sound of her voice faded as she crossed the street. Funny, he hadn't seen her take out a cell phone…. Timothy shook himself back to attention, finished tying his shoelace, and started off again.

When he reached the Trans-National, its doors were half blocked by a cluster of young people in ragged jeans, smoking cigarettes and chatting in a babel of languages. Whoops and giggles rang in his ears as two of the boys shoved each other around in a mock fight. Timothy dodged past them and plunged inside.

“Sorry,” said the shaggy, heavily pierced clerk at the desk. “Can't get a room here without proof of age. Driver's license, that sort of thing. Got to be eighteen or over 'cause of the bar, see.”

Timothy slumped. Sixteen he could pass for, but not
eighteen. “Do you know another hostel I could try?” he said.

The clerk chewed on his lip ring, sizing Timothy up. “There's the Old Victoria,” he said, pointing out the location on the map tacked to the desk. “They'll probably take you.”

“Thanks,” said Timothy wearily, and squeezed back out the door again. This time he bumped into one of the boys, who said in a gruff American accent, “Watch it!”

“Aw, he's just a kid,” said the girl next to him. “Leave him alone, Tyler.”

Tyler shot him a glare but subsided. Timothy gave the American a wide berth and was just stepping onto the sidewalk when a young woman with hair like a crested crane touched his shoulder. “Try this place,” she said, pushing a card into his hand.

Timothy looked down, expecting a coupon for some local pub or tourist trap. Instead he saw a cream-colored card with a single engraved word on the front:

SANCTUARY

He turned it over and read:

“So why aren't you staying there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light so he wouldn't sound accusing, merely curious.

She gave him a sly grin and tapped the words
no alcohol
. “But if I were underage or just wanted a place to sleep, I'd go to Sanctuary like a shot.”

Timothy started to pocket the card, then thought better of it and handed it back. “It's okay,” he said.

“What, you don't trust me?” She looked affronted. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know,” he said, “but the Old Victoria is closer.”

He must have spoken louder than he'd realized, because someone in the crowd behind him laughed. “Yeah—if you like ripped sheets and bedbugs.”

There were noises of general agreement, and the crane-haired girl dropped her cigarette and led Timothy a little way down the sidewalk. “Here,” she said, pointing up the street. “Go two streets that way, then left and down about…” She counted silently on her fingers. “Four more. It'll be on the right, just past the fish-and-chips shop. Used to be a church, so you can't miss it.”

A church
. Timothy's heart sank a little, but after what the others had said about the Old Victoria, it seemed he didn't have much choice. “Thanks,” he said, and set off.

 

Some time later, Timothy stood gazing up at a pillared entrance with the words
GRACE BAPTIST CHURCH
carved
over the lintel. A scrap of greasy newspaper tumbled by and plastered itself against his shoe; he shook it off, and it whisked into the street and was gone.

He shouldn't have come here, Timothy realized with a flicker of apprehension. The street was too quiet, too dimly lit. Besides, the old church looked deserted: No light shone from its windows, and the battered wooden doors were closed. He was wondering if he should go back and look for the Old Victoria after all, when the door swung open, flooding the step with honeyed light. From inside he heard laughter, and the faint, lilting notes of a guitar. “You looking for Sanctuary?” said a cheerful voice.

Suddenly the place seemed transformed, no longer a haunted church but a haven of worldly welcome. “Yeah, I am,” said Timothy, and hurried in.

Brushing past the smiling boy at the door, he found himself in a vestibule plastered with posters advertising bus tours to Stonehenge, offering discount coupons for a local café, and announcing the opening of a new twenty-four-hour launderette, international visitors welcome. A wall rack that had once held gospel tracts was now stuffed with tourist brochures, while the shelves built for hymnbooks were full of visitors' muddy shoes. Reassured, Timothy made his way through a second set of doors and into the noisy bustle of the hostel's common room.

His eyes found the guitarist at once: a young man with
a lean face and fox-colored hair, eyes half closed as his fingers plucked out a Spanish melody. He sat alone on a dilapidated sofa in one corner, while by his feet two bored-looking and nearly identical boys in leather jackets played chess. In the opposite corner a small crowd had gathered, of varying ages and ethnicities; he could see a pair of Japanese girls giggling over a laptop, while two Arabs and a lanky Ethiopian carried on a passionate, hand-waving argument in French.

The reception desk stood against the far wall, beneath a cracked stained-glass window. After giving his card to the hair-twirling girl on duty, Timothy got a locker key and a set of linens, and she pointed him through a second set of doors to look for Cubicle Nine.

It didn't take him long to find it. There were four bunks in the room, none occupied, so he dropped his backpack on the floor and started making up his bed for the night.

“There you are!” said a delighted voice from behind him, and Timothy jerked to attention, nearly cracking his head on the upper bunk.

It was the girl who looked like Miriam.

 

Why Veronica hadn't told him about Sanctuary the moment he'd admitted he was looking for a hostel, Timothy couldn't imagine—but on the other hand, there was something special about meeting her again. It made him feel almost as though there were some greater purpose at work, and he
hadn't felt that way for a long time.

“Look who's turned up!” she announced as she tugged Timothy and his guitar back into the common room. “Another musician!”

This was greeted by cheers, and Timothy was bemused. “What's going on?” he whispered, but Veronica only laughed.

“I love music, that's all,” she said. “Why don't you sit down and show Rob what you can do?”

Rob turned out to be the foxlike young man on the sofa, who set his own guitar aside and regarded Timothy with shrewd dark eyes. “How long have you been playing?” he asked.

“A few years,” said Timothy.

“And where are you from? I can't place the accent.”

“Uganda. But I've been here since September.”

“Ah,” said Rob, leaning back and slinging his arm across the back of the sofa. “Well, then, troubadour, why don't you play us a song?”

Half the people in the room seemed to be watching Timothy now. Veronica pulled a chair around and sat down across from him, eyes fixed eagerly on his face; even the black-haired twins set their chessboard aside, though they still looked bored and a little contemptuous. Timothy's cheeks heated, but he lifted his guitar from the case and tuned it, trying to pretend that he was just practicing and that there was no pressure, no hurry. At last he lowered his
head over the strings and began to play.

He'd meant to start with something everyone would recognize, like the Beatles or Elvis Presley. But Veronica still reminded him of Miriam, and before he knew it, his fingers had started plucking out a Ugandan song instead. At first he played cautiously, unsure of his reception. But when he glanced up he saw Veronica smiling, and took courage.

His thumb tapped the guitar's hollow body, weaving percussion into the melody, and his confidence swelled as he saw the onlookers nodding and tapping their feet. Moving closer, they formed a loose circle around him, surrounding him with the warmth of their bodies and the rhythm of their hands, and when Rob picked up his own guitar and began thumbing a bass line, it seemed so natural that Timothy didn't even falter.

He'd never played this well before, every fingering perfect, every note vibrating clear and true. But after the first couple of numbers, playing other people's songs wasn't enough for him anymore: He wanted—no,
needed
—to improvise, and when he shifted into a different rhythm and a chord progression that was all his own, the crowd whistled and clapped as though they knew. Rob cocked his head to the side and cast him a swift glance, then joined him on the new melody.

A pair of bongo drums appeared from nowhere. A bleached-looking Nordic girl conjured up a flute from
the depths of her purse. Soon half the room was playing, dancing, even humming along with the tune—
his
tune. Timothy felt an incredulous warmth in the pit of his belly. It had been months since he'd felt wanted and valued, instead of like an outsider. But these people were happy to be near him, and they seemed to love every song he played…. It was intoxicating. Nothing mattered but the music, now; he could forget where he was, who he was, and simply
be.

Veronica slipped onto the sofa beside him, so close that he could smell the spice of her perfume. Timothy's heart quickened and his fingers flew across the strings as the melodies kept pouring out of him, each more brilliant than the last. Where were they all coming from? Would he even remember any of them tomorrow? He had no idea. All he knew was that he never wanted it to stop—

All at once Rob played a sour note, a discord so loud and obviously deliberate that it startled Timothy and the others into silence. Then he thrust his guitar aside and stalked away.

Fatigue washed over Timothy as his exhilaration faded. He could feel the strain in his arms and shoulders, and his fingertips had throbbed. How long had he been playing?

“Never mind him,” said Veronica, her eyes shining. She touched his shoulder, adding playfully, “Poor boy, we've worn you out. I'll walk you to your room.”

 

“You played so well tonight,” she said softly as Timothy fumbled the door open. “And such wonderful music…I do believe Rob was jealous.”

It would have been flattering to think so, but Timothy wasn't sure. Rob hadn't looked envious when he'd stopped the music—he'd looked angry.

“Those songs you played,” Veronica went on, “were they from Uganda?”

“Some of them,” he said. “And some”—he ducked his head self-consciously—“I just made up.”

Her wide mouth spread in a smile. “I thought so,” she said. “I have met musicians of all kinds since I came to Sanctuary, but seldom ones as gifted as yourself. Players are easily found, but composers…those are rare.”

There was something odd about the way she was speaking, but Timothy was too tired to question it. He slumped down on the edge of his bed, stuck his key in the locker, and pulled out his backpack for the night.

He was unzipping the top of the pack when realization struck: There was no one else in the room with them. He'd expected to have one or two roommates at least, but the cubicle was still empty, the other bunks and lockers bare. And when Veronica put her back to the door and gently pushed it shut, he felt a stir of misgiving.